And What Does Anyone Know About Traitors,

After All This, What Happened? What Happened Was That, As Soon As I Had The Slightest Chance Of A Place To Hide In, I Crept Into It And Hid. Well, Sometimes It's A Fine Day Isn't It? Sometimes The Skies Are Blue. Sometimes The Air Is Light, Easy To Breathe. And There Is Always Tomorrow.

All Of Writing Is A Huge Lake. There Are Great Rivers That Feed The Lake, Like Tolstoy Or Dostoyevsky. And Then There Are Mere Trickles, Like Jean Rhys. All That Matters Is Feeding The Lake. I Don't Matter. The Lake Matters. You Must Keep Feeding The Lake.

No Past To Make Us Sentimental, No Future To Embarrass Us...a Difficult Moment When You Are Out Of Practice - A Moment That Makes You Go Cold, Cold And Wary.

Before I Could Read, Almost A Baby, I Imagined That God, This Strange Thing Or Person I Heard About, Was A Book.

I Like Shape Very Much. A Novel Has To Have Shape, And Life Doesn't Have Any.